CHAPTER 27

In Which the Emperor Awaits a Mysterious Visitor

Rudolf, King of Bohemia and Hungary, Archduke of Austria, and King of the Romans, tapped his long fingers impatiently on the arms of his favourite throne. He hated waiting. And yet, it seemed that the principal chore of the most powerful ruler of the Holy Roman Empire was not ruling, but waiting. Each day, every day, all day long, the life of an emperor amounted to little more than a series of brief conversations punctuated by lengthy intervals of loitering. He waited for audiences, waited for his edicts to be ratified and executed, waited for ministers to act on his decisions, waited for replies to his manifold messages, waited while the vast wheels of government slowly revolved to bring about a result, any result . . . and so on and—so far as he could see—forever.

The best that could be hoped for was to organise all this waiting into more productive heaps, overlapping as many delays as possible. Rudolf liked to think it made these idle periods more productive than if strung out individually. Just now, for example, he was waiting for paint to dry, and for his first audience of the day, and for word from Vienna regarding the birth of an infant by his mistress. He was having his portrait rendered, and the artist insisted that he wait until the paint had settled before abandoning his pose, should refinements be required; he was expecting his chief alchemist to attend him with the results of the latest experiments; heavily pregnant Katharina had been sent to Vienna to bear his child, whose arrival was imminent. Later on, he could look forward to waiting for his ministers to present the state of his treasury, waiting for his friend Prince Leopold of Swabia to arrive for his annual visit and hunt, waiting for the coach to take him to the opera for his evening’s entertainment. A full and productive day of waiting stretched before him.

“How much longer?” he asked, meaning the paint—it had become such a familiar phrase on his lips, his courtiers did not feel obliged to respond with any degree of precision.

“Not long, Highness,” replied the artist Arcimboldo, wafting a cloth gently over the surface of the canvas. “Soon. Very soon.”

The Holy Roman Emperor sighed and resumed drumming his fingers. The artist busied himself with mixing colours on his palette. An eternity elapsed, and the emperor was on the point of asking yet again how much longer he must wait before he could get up when a sharp rap came on the door of the chamber and his master of audiences appeared. “Forgive the intrusion, Your Highness,” he announced, “but Herr Doktor Bazalgette craves the pleasure of your attention.”

“And we his,” replied Rudolf. “By all means, bid him enter at once.”

The courtier bowed and stepped backward, ushering into the room Balthazar Bazalgette, the emperor’s chief alchemist: a portly man of middle years, who possessed not only the jowls of a prize swine, but lavish eyebrows the artist might have envied for portrait work. He was also a man of immense erudition, and no small pomposity. If one was prepared to overlook the latter, however, one found beneath the expansive velvet robe a man of great industry and a sincerity of purpose that many religious zealots might have done well to emulate.

“Bazalgette!” cried Rudolf, happy at having this latest round of waiting interrupted at last. “Come here to us!”

The Lord High Alchemist swept into the room in a rush of robes, his tall, fur-trimmed hat slightly askew in his hurry. “Good news, Highness! I bring very encouraging word. We have succeeded in producing the Elixir of the Wise. Our experiments can now continue without delay.”

“That is good news,” Rudolf agreed. He liked anything that promised to minimize the dread delay in any of its insidious forms. “Sit you down.” He indicated the painter’s stool nearby. “Tell us all about it.”

“Gladly, Sire,” said the alchemist, drawing the stool close to the throne. “As you will recall from our last conversation, the prime difficulty of producing red sulphur lies in the inherent instability of the constituent ingredients.”

“Yes,” affirmed Rudolf, “we do recall the particular conversation right well.”

“To be sure, another part of the difficulty lies in securing sufficient quantities of feculent earth needed to produce the righteous oil.”

“Of course.” Rudolf nodded. Alchemy was a complicated business. He marvelled that anyone could maintain his wits in the face of such monumental and implacable intricacy.

“By a most fortuitous coincidence,” continued Bazalgette with mounting excitement, “my assistant—remember young Rosenkreuz?—was at this new Kaffeehaus in the square, and he adroitly obtained a goodly quantity of a new and hitherto unknown substance—a bitter earth called ground of Kaffee.”

“Did he indeed?” The imperial eyebrows lifted in mild surprise. “How very enterprising of him.”

“He is a most capable assistant, Sire,” commended the chief alchemist benignly. “We have already begun experimenting with the substance, Highness, and though a complete assay will take some time, I am pleased to say that preliminary results appear extremely promising.”

“We have heard of this Kaffee,” the emperor mused. Turning his face toward the door, he shouted, “Ruprecht!”

The door opened momentarily and the master of audiences appeared. “Highness? You called?”

“We have heard of this Kaffee, have we not?”

“I believe so, Highness.”

“But we have not imbibed it?”

“No, Sire. Not as yet.”

“Have some brought to us,” Rudolf commanded, then hastily added, “—today! Without delay.”

“It will be done, Your Highness,” intoned the master of audiences.

“If I may interrupt, Sire,” ventured the alchemist, “I have already taken the liberty of inviting the owners of this Kaffeehaus to visit me at court to discuss supplying us with the bitter earth for our experiments. Inasmuch as their cooperation is of inestimable value to our experiments, I thought we might bestow an honour upon them—the better to secure their future goodwill for the aid and advance of the Great Work.”

Rudolf smiled. “Good thinking, Bazalgette.” To the lingering Ruprecht, the emperor commanded, “Send a coach for them at the arranged time, and make sure they bring some of this Kaffee with them. We would like to taste it.”

“It will be done, Highness.”

Turning once more to the alchemist, Rudolf said, “It is a momentous age we inhabit, is it not?”

“Indeed, Sire,” agreed the alchemist, “all the more when I tell you that just this morning I received word from an acquaintance of mine who is soon in Prague and wishes to engage certain members of our enlightened brotherhood in the construction of a device to further his astral explorations.”

Rudolf blinked at the alchemist. “His what explorations?”

“Astral, Sire,” answered Bazalgette. “The etheric realms, you might say. It appears that he is even now perfecting the means to travel the astral planes by means known to him and wishes our help in furthering his endeavours.”

“Spirit travel?” wondered Rudolf. That, in itself, seemed of little promise, and less interest.

“Oh, no, Sire,” countered the alchemist quickly. “Physical travel—moving bodily between various planes or dimensions of existence. I believe he can demonstrate this ability.”

“That we should like to see,” said Rudolf, his interest piqued.

“No doubt it can be arranged,” offered Bazalgette.

“Summon him to us,” commanded the emperor. “We will grant him a place here in the palace should he so desire. We wish to see what he can do, this astral explorer. It may be that this mode of travel could prove a very boon to humanity if it could be perfected for good.”

“I could not have said it better myself, Sire,” agreed the alchemist. “I will engage him directly when he arrives in the city.”

“Good. Speak with Ruprecht. We would like to meet him.”

“Of course, Highness.”

“Excuse me, Your Majesty,” said the court painter Arcimboldo. “I would never dare to interrupt, but you asked me to tell you when the portrait was ready for viewing. I have finished for the day, so if you would like to see it, I humbly offer it for your inspection.”

“Come, Balthazar, let us see how this portrait is developing.” The emperor rose and crossed to the artist’s easel. “Tell us what you think,” he said, casting a critical eye over the expansive canvas. “The truth, now. We will not hear flummery.”

“Exquisite, Highness,” remarked the chief alchemist in a reverential tone. “Undoubtedly a work of genius. Just look at that melon—and those peaches!—wondrous to behold. The grapes are a revelation, if I may say it. And the asparagus is astonishing.”

Giuseppe Arcimboldo had made a name for himself by painting fruit and vegetables in a most remarkably lifelike way. Lately, he had hit on the idea of portraiture as still life—rendering his patrons as if they were agglomerations of items from a greengrocer’s stall. Although the enterprise was still in its infancy, it was hoped that the style would catch on.

“This pear,” said Rudolf, indicating a large fruit in the centre of the canvas. “What kind is it?”

“It is a Fiorentina pear, Majesty—an Italian variety.”

“Do you think an Italian pear was an appropriate choice for our nose?” wondered Rudolf. “Does not its shape make our nose look bulbous?”

“By no means, Sire. With peaches for cheeks, a pear for a nose makes perfect sense.”

“Ah, but would not a fig be better?”

“Perhaps a Turkish fig—”

“Do not speak to us of Turks!” snapped the emperor. “We are sick to death of all things Turkish.”

“I am sorry, Your Highness,” said Bazalgette quickly. “Pray, forgive me.”

“And then there is the issue of colour,” suggested the artist delicately. “Ripe figs being purple, you see.”

“Let it stand as it is,” commanded Rudolf.

“A wise decision, Sire. The painting is approaching perfection. I feel as if I could reach out and take hold of that artichoke, or smell those roses,” offered the alchemist, happy for a chance to distance himself from any mention of the hated Turks. “And the aubergine . . . oh, the aubergine is a magnificent specimen of its kind.”

“Yes,” agreed the king. “It is truly masterful.” Half turning to the painter, he said, “Well done, Arcimboldo. You surpass your craft.”

“Thank you, Your Exalted Highness,” replied the artist, who stood looking on. “Your praise is food and drink to me.”

“We will see you tomorrow,” Rudolf told him. He crossed the wide floor of polished walnut to the chamber door, which was opened by one of the two pages standing at attention there; he entered the mirrored corridor. Turning to his chief alchemist following two steps behind him, he said, “We will expect you to inform us when this traveller fellow arrives. We wish most ardently to converse with him.”

“Never fear, Highness,” said Bazalgette with a respectful bow. “It will be a most interesting meeting of the minds, and I welcome it with greatest anticipation.”

The emperor gave a slight flick of his hand to dismiss his courtier and proceeded down the corridor, led by the regal figure of his master of audiences and the two young pages. “Ah! Bazalgette,” he called behind him. “Do not forget the Kaffee. We want very much to drink this Kaffee.”

“Worry for nothing, Highness,” answered the Lord High Alchemist. “It will be done.”